


Sweet Tea.

by worth_the_risk



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Fourth of July visit, inspired by a real life problem i give myself TOO OFTEN, porch talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 21:24:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13016418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worth_the_risk/pseuds/worth_the_risk
Summary: Please do yourselves a favor and drink a glass of water per glass of properly-brewed sweet tea you drink if you've got anxiety. Please be better to yourself than I am to me.





	Sweet Tea.

“You been doing push-ups for a while there, son,” Coach said. 

Jack finished the set and finally let his legs bend, rolling over to sit and look up at Coach. The older man was leaning against the door frame, screen door propped open with his foot. “Yes, sir.”

“Shouldn't you be in bed?”

“I, uh. I actually can’t sleep,” he answered, pushing himself up off the porch planks and rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Moths darted at the porch light, a few bravely venturing over Coach’s head and into the foyer.

“Heat getting to you?” Coach’s gingery mustache bristled with a half-hidden smile.

Jack laughed before answering. “No, sir. Well, yes, a bit. But that’s not why I’m awake.”

Coach stepped out into the night, letting the screen door bang weakly against its frame. He crossed slowly to the porch swing and sat, glancing down at the unoccupied wood of the worn bench before looking up at Jack. Taking the hint for what it was, Jack padded across the porch and sat next to his boyfriend’s father, clasping his hands and letting them fall between his knees. The men sat in silence, watching the sparse fireflies flit across the close-mowed lawn.

“Nervous about starting work in a few weeks?”

_ Work.  _ What a nonchalant way to describe the impossible undertaking he was setting out on. “Yes.”

“It’s a big step.” Coach nodded thoughtfully, still looking out over the yard. “It’s hard, going from a place and people you’ve made a home with and moving on, having to do it again.”

“I’m worried about picking up the rhythm with new people,” Jack offered, voice soft. “There were people at Samwell with me that were there all four of my years and I knew them, knew how they played like the back of my hand.” He knitted his fingers together and squeezed. “I was reliable because they were reliable. I’m afraid I won’t be able to do something similar to that in Providence.”

“Junior’d been on your line for all of a game before you two started setting up real nice plays.” Coach combed his fingertips through his mustache, gears turning. “And if I remember correctly – from Junior’s side, anyway – y’all weren’t getting on too hot at the time.”

Jack frowned and looked down at his hands, trying to will them to stop shaking. “No, we really weren’t. I was playing very selfishly. I know better than that now, thanks to him.” The sharp memory of that awful hip check flashed behind his eyes. He furrowed his brow and squeezed his hands together.

“Jack, I've been coaching for more than half my life now. I've seen a lot of young people move on up through college to play professionally. Never have I seen someone so poised to succeed as you.” They were both quiet for a moment. “I don't say that to put the pressure on.”

“No, sir, I understand.”

“You're going to do just fine.”

Jack nodded and pressed his hands flat against his thighs to keep himself from wringing them. 

“You're anxious about more than hockey, aren't you?” 

Jack made a conscious effort not to blanch. 

“Well, I won't pry. I'll let Suzie do that and tell me about it later.” Coach winked and stood up, the chair swinging forward to chase the missing weight. 

“Sir, to be honest-”

Coach turned and looked at Jack, eyes curious. Jack thought about all the things he could say to his boyfriend’s father, all the half-truths or lies or terrifying honesty he didn't have the right to unload on this man who was trying his hardest to be a gracious host. Would he still be so kind if he knew Jack was about to go curl up around his son? Would he make him leave? Would he make them both leave? In the end, it didn't matter; it wasn't his choice whether or not to tell Coach anything. So he told him the littlest truth he could. 

“...I drank too much sweet tea and the caffeine has me wound up.” 

The men stared at each other for a second before Coach laughed, a deeper and less musical version of Eric’s, but it still made Jack feel like he was in on some kind of private joke. “Well, let’s get you a big glass of water and see if that doesn't help.”

“Yes, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please do yourselves a favor and drink a glass of water per glass of properly-brewed sweet tea you drink if you've got anxiety. Please be better to yourself than I am to me.


End file.
